A Better Bastard
by Fyrie
Summary: Historical fact meets Sharpe (due to lack of fitting book or TV subheadings): 1852 - The Duke of Wellington's Funeral.


London – 1852

The streets of the capital were milling with people of all ages, sometimes two and three deep in places; a sea of eager faces all watching the last journey of the great man, Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington.

As was befitting, the procession was grand, slow, showing every pomp and display of dignity that the Duke deserved after his years of service for King and country. Flags fluttered in the Thames-scented breeze, ale-flavoured cheers carrying as the coffin passed, the whimpers of a bored child silenced by a cautioning mother's hand.

Beneath the trees that lined the Mall, an aged man stood, leaning heavily on a walking stick that looked like it might take root at any minute. His back was bent, his body wiry and thin, his wispy hair and thick beard peppered with grey, but something in his eyes spat living fire, burning with a vigour lacking in men half his age.

Those very eyes were on the coffin as it was borne past on a broad gun carriage, his back straightening slightly and one age-spotted hand rising to touch his brow in a respectful, silent salute.

"S'bloody ridiculous, that it is," a voice said close to him, loud over the crowd. "All those bleedin' ribbons! They could have made a lot of lasses very happy with those! And I tell ye, old Nosey wouldn't be wanting to be all dressed up like a Froggie whore, so he wouldn't!"

The old man's age-lined face broke into a smile, but he didn't turn. "So you're still alive, you old bastard."

"Alive and well, sir," the reply came, amusement tainting the strong Irish accent, which had moved closer. "And so, I see, are you."

"Aye," the old man murmured. "Just." He shifted under the heavy greatcoat he wore, exhaling a breath between clenched teeth. "Not as young as we used to be, eh?"

A tall figure moved beside him, this one thick in the waist and broad in the shoulder, wearing the tailored clothes of a respectable man, a combination that made any who knew him stop and stare before collapsing and rolling on the ground in mirth.

"Knew ye'd be here, if you hadn't met the Maker yet, so I did."

"The Maker?" A look was cast at him. "You know what I think of that bloody bastard, Pat."

"Aye, and I'm sure he loves you just as much," the Irishman replied amiably. He nodded towards the parade, his voice loud and outspoken as ever. "Ye had to show your face to be sure that the stubborn old bastard was actually dead, didn't ye?"

"I do protest, sir!"

Both the elderly men turned their attention to the uniformed young Sergeant far too swiftly to be anything other than soldiers themselves and – with such speed at their age – it only spoke of the formidable talent they must have borne years before.

"Do you indeed, lad?" the bent old man murmured, eyes gleaming. "And what is it you might be protesting?"

"Y-your blatant disrespect of the Duke!" the youth stammered, stepping back, a trace of panic in his eyes. "He-he-he was a great man and he d-deserves your respect!" He looked righteously indignant, then added as an afterthought, "D-damn you!"

"Knew him, did ye?" the Irishman asked, rocking on the balls of his feet, one hand rising to brush a silver curl of hair off his forehead, his beaming, red-cheeked face split in a wicked grin.

"I-I-I… pardon?"

"Old Nosey. Did ye know him? Had ye ever met him?"

The boy – he could barely have been more than seventeen – paled. "N-no, sir."

"Did ye hear that?" the big man turned to his slighter companion. "The lad never even met old Nosey and he thinks he knows him all well and good, so he does! Can you imagine that, _Sir_? And how many times did you meet the Duke, _Sir_? It was a few times, wasn't it, _Sir_?"

Green eyes gleamed. "Aye, Pat," the bent, old man murmured, leaning on his stick, his beard bristling as he smiled. Or perhaps frowned. "Aye, it was a few times and he was an old bastard."

"B-but…"

The walking cane lashed out, tipping the boy's chin back. "I never said he wasn't a damn good General and bloody good man as well," the Northern-accented voice added quietly, evenly. The stick dropped away. "But he was still a bastard."

The Irishman beamed broadly down at the young soldier, who looked as if he wished he could just melt into the cobbled ground. "Aye, Major Sharpe, that he was."

"M-Major Sharpe?" Petrified blue eyes darted to the old man's face. 

Already, though, the old man was turning away, walking back the way he had come.

The big Irishman followed, matching the Major's sedate pace. "No more mission left for you, then, Sir?"

"Pat, I think we're past all that now, eh?"

Patrick Harper smiled. "By a few years, Mr Sharpe," he replied, eyes twinkling.

Richard Sharpe paused, glancing at the procession as it trundled off into the distance, leaning on his cane. "Had to come and pay my last respects, Pat," he said quietly. "He was a damn good man."

"That he was, Mr Sharpe. That he was."

Side by side, they walked on in the midday sun, through crowds of nameless faces, their own identities long forgotten, leaving Wellington, the wars and everything they had once stood for far behind them.

Sharpe only looked back once more and smiled.

"Aye, he was a good man, Pat," he said. "But, he was still a better bastard."


End file.
